


Photograph

by thesadchicken



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, or at least a hopeful ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 03:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesadchicken/pseuds/thesadchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They stand facing each other one last time. Many things ended with the war. What more is there to say after goodbye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photograph

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Ed Sheeran's "Photograph" -a bittersweet, beautiful song.
> 
> Once again, I have to thank my wonderful friend [captainslock](http://captainslock.tumblr.com) for beta-reading this, and for all her support!

_We keep this love in a photograph; we made these memories for ourselves_

_Where our eyes are never closing, hearts are never broken_

_And times are forever frozen still_

~

The doctor’s presence at his side lingered for a moment too long. Garak felt it, knew there was something more to the awkward silence than the sting of a painful farewell, but did nothing to encourage his friend to reveal whatever was holding him there longer than strictly necessary. It was over, everything was over now; the war, the Dominion, the old Cardassia, _his_ Cardassia… and, inevitably, his and doctor Bashir’s relationship. What more is there to say after goodbye? So he patted him on the shoulder, and for a small, bittersweet moment, his body betrayed him; his hand slid over the other man’s uniform, his fingers clung slightly to the fabric. Then he let go, and that was the true farewell.

“I'm going to miss our lunches together,” he had said with a smile. I’m going to miss the arguments and discussions and poorly concealed compliments, the laughter and banter and sweet lies, the way you curl your lips around your fork and the way your long, slender fingers gripped my wrist that one time. I’m going to miss waiting for you, sitting alone at my table in the too-bright, too-cold Replimat, knowing that you would arrive sooner or later and your smile would be the reward for my patience. I’m going to miss being annoyed at the way you pull on your curls when you concentrate.

“We live in uncertain times,” he was saying. Things change, and that’s the way it should be. You won’t remember me, and I will forget you as well, in time. The bitterness will fade away and your memory will remain in the back of my mind, a sweet reminder that there truly is beauty in this old and weary galaxy. Your image will slowly fade away; your face will become a blur. And all will be well, in time. He hoped the doctor would read into his simple words and seek the deeper meaning behind them. That he would hear the things unsaid. Oh, he most certainly would; they had come to know each other quite well during the last seven years, and his friend was nothing if not clever. Of course, he wouldn’t understand at first, but eventually he’d know that things are always better this way. _Perhaps the very last lesson I shall give you, doctor_. Ease the pain away and don’t hold onto anything that might compromise you. Garak tried to meet his friend’s eyes one last time, but the younger man wasn’t looking. He looked older, and yet still so young. The corners of his eyes were wrinkled and his face was scrunched into an expression of anguish and slight pity. _I don’t need your pity, my friend, neither do I want it_. And although Garak knew the pain was genuine, he couldn’t stand seeing it on Julian Bashir’s features. So he left. Just like that, he walked out of the room and didn’t turn back. It was so easy! He almost laughed at himself: he had dreaded this moment, thinking he would inexorably betray himself further than he already had. But no, it had been easy enough, and now the doctor was already out of his life and he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. _Just ease the pain, Elim, don’t let it get to you_. That was it, he was free of it now, and he could mourn his dead and rebuild a new Cardassia on the ashes of the one he so inconsolably grieved.

As he walked down the corridor, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps from behind him and knew instantly who it was: long legs, quick movements, impatient strides. And then that voice, calling his name.

“Garak!”

He turned around, gaze impenetrable, and set his face into an expression of polite tolerance. The doctor wasn’t exactly breathless when he reached him, but had apparently put some effort into the task of following him. As he looked back, Garak noticed that he had covered a considerable distance, between his current location and the room in which they had last conversed. He hadn’t realized how fast he had been walking - _running away_.

“Garak,” his friend gasped as he tried to stand perfectly still in front of him.

They were so close that the human’s somewhat ragged breath tickled Garak’s nose scales. Their eyes never met; the doctor was plainly avoiding eye contact. In fact, he was looking down at his hands with uncharacteristic shyness, holding his shoulders back, trying to look imposing through his uncertainty. The contrast was quite charming –but no, _stop it Elim, let go_. He waited, gaze stubbornly locked onto Bashir’s fleeing eyes. The younger man was struggling. _Be merciful, doctor; learn the lesson and don’t make this hard on us_. But Garak would grant him this last little courtesy; he would wait for him this one last time. Whatever he had to say, Garak would hear it and refrain from commenting –no matter how blunt and insensible the Federation-type speech he was about to give. _I know you mean well_ , he thought, with a fondness that overtook him, no matter how hard he tried to push it away. Eyelids fluttered over clear hazel eyes, but not even a gaze was permitted. A sudden intake of breath, and the doctor reached quickly into the pocket of his uniform trousers. Garak peered curiously at the object he extracted from it: a flat, oval shaped piece of metal. This, he hadn’t been expecting.

“I –err,” Bashir stammered; “I thought -maybe you might want to keep something…”

His voice trailed off and the rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat. He winced and held out the metallic object, offering it to Garak clumsily. It was obvious that he had been planning on a much more graceful outcome to that particular endeavor, but Garak wouldn’t hold it against him. It wasn’t entirely his fault, was it? After all, he hadn’t been given enough time earlier, what with the Cardassian’s selfish eagerness to get out and avoid unnecessarily long goodbyes. Garak felt oddly guilty as he took the gift –tilting his head in acknowledgment- and stared at it. This really wasn’t what he had been expecting. He held the item in his open palm, unsure of what to do with it. What was it? Should he thank his friend and leave or was there more? His mouth hung open, forming an ‘o’ shape –he must’ve been a pitiful sight, because the doctor finally had mercy on him and pressed a button on the side of the oval object.

A holo-image appeared, projected from the center of the metallic item. It was them. Before the war. They were sitting at their favored table in the Replimat back on Deep Space Nine. The doctor was wearing his old blue and black uniform, holding his mug of _Tarkalean_ tea between his palms and looking at Garak with teasing eyes and a smug smile. Garak, at the other end of the table, was wearing a resentfully defeated expression, staring at his friend through lowered eyelids with mild exasperation, but underneath it his gaze was so deeply affectionate it couldn’t be mistaken for anything but profound fondness. When was this? Garak examined the picture more closely; his hair was slightly tousled, his neck ridges were hanging out of his tunic in what would have been considered a rather vulgar way had he been on Cardassia, and his half-empty glass of _rokassa_ juice was dangerously near the edge of the table. What had he been thinking? _I suppose I wasn’t thinking at all_. Yes, it came back to him now. The doctor had just won a long and heated argument: something that wasn’t entirely uncommon, but that particular argument had endured for days and Garak had been fairly certain of the outcome until Bashir had snatched his very last resource away from him by exposing an inept deviation in his reasoning and had finally proven him wrong. Yes, he remembered it well now, the way their eyes met in a fiery, frenzied dance of intimidation, the doctor’s frantic, frustrated movements as he tried to make a point by moving cutlery all around the table, his own desperate attempts at proving himself right when the game had reached its end, and the way his friend chewed his lower lip when he was listening, smirking already; a heated argument indeed - _oh, stop it Elim_. But what he remembered best was the aftermath: Julian Bashir’s little “ha” of victory, the gleam in his eyes as he positively radiated proud smugness, and that enticing half-smile he had given him. The reaction it had produced in Garak had been instantaneous; he recalled comparing what he had felt to an old poem he used to quote all the time, as crude as it was: “an exquisite pain/ churning the heart, the stomach, and the genitals.” He remembered, of course he remembered. How could he forget…?

There was something seductively deceptive about holding this piece of his life in his open palm; for a brief, ecstatic moment, Garak felt he could travel back in time. It almost made him smile; but lately an honest smile had become more than he could afford. Oh, and there was the other kind of pain -the less pleasant one- clutching at him, reaching into the darker corners of his mind with its cold crooked claws, crawling through the uneven cracks in his walls, beyond his carefully constructed web of disguise, exposing him. There his secret was, out in the open air where he couldn’t hide it from himself; he didn’t want to forget Julian Bashir, no matter how much it would compromise him. The holo-image taunted him with its perfect stillness, time forever frozen in that pure and sincere moment of lucidity. Happiness, Garak thought, this is what happiness looks like. No lies, no pretense, not a thought for tomorrow or yesterday. In those scarce, fugitive moments, he and the doctor lived in a realm of sweet surrender, where they yielded to the present and nothing but the present. No ghosts, no shadows, just plain simple Garak and clear hazel eyes. _Enough_.

He closed his hand around the metallic object and the holo-image disappeared. It was like taking a blow to the face.

“Thank you,” he whispered with unreserved sincerity. He should’ve been shocked by the trembling of his own voice but somehow he felt it didn’t matter now; he had already given himself away.

“You’re welcome,” the doctor smiled sadly. They looked at each other for what seemed like the first time in months. And on his friend’s young features pain was replaced with… hope.

When he walked away, Garak stared at Julian Bashir’s back until he could no longer see it. He clutched the metallic object and held it to his heart. Of course Julian had heard those things unsaid. And now it was Garak’s turn to read between the lines; the holo-image was a message in itself. _Don’t forget me. I won’t let you forget me._ Elim Garak pocketed the small oval item. _I’ll wait for you, doctor._

~

_So you can keep me inside the pocket of your ripped jeans_

_Holdin' me closer till our eyes meet_

_You won't ever be alone_

_Wait for me to come home_

_-Photograph, Ed Sheeran._


End file.
